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@graylinggab: This is it, guys. The Goalposts Tour is over. How many shows did you make it to? Final count on friendship bracelets? Pics of your best tour outfits? We’re not ready to let go! Spam ALL the pics with the hashtag #farewellgoalposts and let’s soak in the magic a little longer.

** *

You sleep until three in the afternoon.

Sterling’s actually up before you. You find him on the balcony, watching the activity on the street below. He’s showered and is wrapped in a silk robe with tigers on it. His legs are crossed demurely, and he’s sipping a steaming mug of herbal tea.

Compared to him, you feel like a lumbering Neanderthal.

Your breath tastes like something died in your mouth, and your head is killing you.

You grabbed your pants from the night before but didn’t bother with a shirt.

All of Kensington can see you bare-chested and stumbling around, but you don’t even care.

“How are you?” you ask anxiously.

He looks at you, bemused. “A lot better than you, from the looks of it.” He pats the lounger beside him. “Sit down. I called Maeve, and she’s telling anyone that matters not to even bother trying to reach us for the rest of the day.”

You shove the heel of your hand into your eye socket, trying to wipe away the fatigue. All it does is hurt. “You been up long?”

“Maybe an hour?” He shrugs. “I was going to order some food. You want Atis? I am dying for something green. Something healthy and green.” His laughter is light. He picks up his phone .

“About that.” Of course, London had to pick this one day for the sun to come out for probably the only time all year. It’s personally oppressing you. You wish you had sunglasses, but you want to get this out. “Last night…”

Sterling raises an eyebrow. Puts his phone down as quickly as he picked it up. “Is this about to be a bad conversation?”

“No!” you say hurriedly. “I don’t think so? I just… wanted to make sure it was all okay. It was… a lot, you know?”

“Yes, it was.” Thoughtfully, he blows on his tea and takes a careful sip. “I feel like I owe you an apology. That’s twice in a few weeks that I let myself get out of hand.”

“No,” you repeat. “I feel like I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have…”

“Let me seduce you?” He snorts a little. “Not trying to play a game of leapfrogging guilt here, but you did say no. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I was only worried about you regretting it,” you say softly. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to.”

Sterling sets his tea down beside his phone. Reaches for your hands, enfolding them in his. “Kaius. Look at me.”

You do .

“I’m bad at drinking and getting high,” he says. “It’s just that being with you makes me feel so safe that I want to try things that I normally wouldn’t do. The alcohol and edibles and everything that came after. I regret nothing, unless it made you feel uncomfortable.”

You nuzzle your joined hands with your head. “Here I was thinking you just liked being a damsel in distress.”

His fingers squeeze yours. “Pretty sure that, after last night and my birthday, I’m back to sobriety for a long time.”

“I like you when you’re a mess,” you laugh. “You’re, like, the most in-control person I know. And that all goes out the window. It’s not a bad look from time to time.”

“I love you,” he says. “Did you know that?”

You look up sharply, the bright sun suddenly no longer an issue. Sterling has a sideways smile on his face.

“I almost said it last night,” he tells you, “except I knew that you’d think I was just saying it because of the brownies. But it wasn’t. I’ve been wanting to say that for a while.”

“And last night was the right time?” is all you can come up with .

“Yeah,” he says. “I was thinking it when I was on stage. I could see you in the crowd during the Golden set, and I remember thinking it, clear as a bell. I love Kaius. I guess I should tell him .”

You blink rapidly. Below the balcony, the street is alight with conversation and passing cars.

There’s a bell on the door of the florist down the block, and it chimes here and there as people enter and exit.

Overhead, the sky is cornflower blue and scattered with fluffy clouds. It’s mid-May. Sterling loves you.

“I love you, too,” you say. “So very, very much.”

He laughs, and it’s the best sound you think you’ve ever heard.

“You want the same thing you got last time?” he asks, like today is just an ordinary day. Like the world is spinning the same way on its axis. What is he talking about? Oh. The salads .

He looks up and notices you staring at him. He can’t tell that you would give him the moon.

“Go take a shower,” he says, amused. “And you talk about me being the damsel in distress. Go. By the time you get done, the food will be here.”

***

The following night is your last one in London.

It’s time for you both to go back to the States and part ways for a while, Ster to New York and LA to do media rounds on the closing of the tour, and you to Miami for the first OTAs of the upcoming season.

It’s seriously bittersweet. You’ve been living together for seven weeks, and you weren’t prepared for what a bonding experience it was going to be.

None of your worries about sharing space materialized.

Instead, you fell in love with the experience of waking up in the same bed as Sterling most mornings.

You pack your bags in the bedroom suite of the rental, looking around at the now-familiar furnishings.

The rattan bed, the pastoral toile on the curtains.

You wonder if you’re going to miss the tolling of the grandfather clock downstairs, the noise of which you don’t even notice consciously anymore.

If the Florida sunshine is going to seem unusual after so many weeks of gloomy weather.

The keys have to be turned in the next morning, but, that night, you guys go out together.

You eat at The Spotted Cow, and walk hand-in-hand on the high street, which is just a British-ism for the main road.

Sterling points out the UK headquarters of UMG, Sony Music, EMI, and Warner, all of which are located nearby.

In that way, you figure out why he stayed in Kensington, even though it took the whole trip.

You pass the Arcade, with its bevy of cafés and shops, the Romanian consulate, and Our Lady of Victories.

Sterling has his hair gathered in a floppy knit hat and his face hidden behind sunglasses.

You yourself get some curious glances, but it’s nothing crazy.

Under the glow of the streetlights, you could be any ordinary couple out on a stroll.

Impulsively, Sterling stops in front of a small storefront that has PSYCHIC spelled out in blinking neon script on the window.

It’s grimy-looking from the outside. The stoop hasn’t been swept in a while, there’s trash in the gutter, and the glass needs polishing.

On the door is the faded picture of a hand, and white lettering: READINGS! -- TAROT! -- SEE THE FUTURE!

“Seriously?” you ask, laughing dubiously when he tugs you to a halt.

“Why not?” he says, excited. “Aren’t you curious?”

You don’t believe in that nonsense. But you do believe in making Sterling happy. The big smile on his face makes it a no-brainer. You let him guide you both through the door, which beeps when you walk in.

It’s small inside, just a front and back room divided by a thick arch lined in purple lights.

There’s a glass display counter with a cash register.

Inside are crystals and New Age gewgaws on two shelves.

Beyond, thick, plum-colored curtains lining the walls, and a small table with two chairs pulled up.

There’s a poster on the wall showing a hand sectioned off with lines, and floating shelves holding metaphysical books.

Some cool-looking pink glass light fixtures hang from the ceiling.

The carpet is well-trod and dark blue. A thick cloud of suffocating incense hangs in the air.

Summoned by the door’s notification, a small woman enters from a heretofore-unnoticed side room.

She doesn’t look much like any fortune-teller you imagined.

Instead of a peasant skirt and a turban, she’s wearing ripped jeans and a black t-shirt.

She’s got long, reddish-brown hair shot through with silver, and a face that is lined, but still quite pretty.

Looking close, you are startled by one singular visual indicator of witchiness: she’s got pronounced heterochromia.

One eye is green, and one is dark brown.

“Greetings,” she says, her accent lilting. “My name is Caroline. What brings you gentlemen in, this evening?”

“We’d like to have our fortunes told,” Sterling says.

Caroline nods thoughtfully. “Excellent decision. You’ve come to the right place. Would you like cards, palms, or crystal ball?”

“Which one is most accurate?” you interject.

She fixes you with a level gaze. It’s more than a little disconcerting, with her eyes. You’re torn between making eye contact, which is polite, and staring, which is not. As if taking your measure, she pauses a moment .

“Accuracy isn’t something we aim for in prognostication,” she explains. “Using a psychic isn’t about predicting future events, no matter what the public perceives. It’s about interpreting energy and discussing how to apply existing factors to events that may come to occur.”

“That sounds more like therapy than fortune-telling,” you say bluntly. Sterling elbows you in the side, subtle but sharp. Caroline laughs.

“I like you,” she says. “Do you mind me asking what your names are?”

“My name is John,” Sterling says. It’s his middle name, and the one he frequently uses when he needs an alias, so it isn’t surprising. Caroline turns in your direction.

“Xavier,” you tell her, utilizing the same strategy.

“John and Xavier,” she repeats. “What flavor of Southern Yank are you, Xavier?”

Surprised, you don’t even think to lie. “I’m from Georgia,” you say. “Macon.”